A Stoner on the Oregon Trail

I’ve lived and traveled through much of the United States. I hope to see it all before I die. Right now, I’m traveling Europe, seeing as many countries as I can. It may be apparent, but I was bitten by the “travel-bug.” I can’t completely blame it on Oregon Trail, though I suspect that had something to do with it. In elementary school, I played Oregon Trail on a Commodore 64 in the school library. When I entered middle school, I still played Oregon Trail in the library—on a Mac. By the time I reached high school, I was well-versed in the aspect of American history involving the mass migration of early settler’s via the Oregon Trail. As I grew older, I heard from various travelers that Oregon and Washington are beautiful places with wonderful mountain vistas, scenic hiking trails, and a plethora of waterfalls. Needless to say, I desired to visit.

In 2014, I got my chance. I was living in Germany, near Ramstein Air Force Base. The Golden Crown Literary Society was holding a writing conference and awards ceremony at the Red Lion at Jantzen Beach in Portland, Oregon. My first poetry book was short-listed for a GCLS 2014 Goldie Award for Poetry. At the last minute, my family and I decided that I should attend the conference. We couldn’t afford the flight to and from Germany, the conference, a rental car, and the $100+ per night for the hotel; sorry, Red Lion, every writer has a fund limitation and food is important. So, we used Airbnb to find cheaper accommodations at a house less than a mile away from the GCLS conference. Until planning this trip, I had no idea that Portland, Or. and Vancouver, Wa. were so close together. Let’s just say that, despite my fervor for American history and world travel, geography is not my strong suite. Tickets were purchased, reservations were made, and my bags were packed.

While still feeling the grogginess of jet lag on my first morning in Vancouver, I met my host who pointed me towards food. I put in my earbuds and meandered down the street. The sun was high, the temperature moderate, and the air crisp; all said, a beautiful day for a walk before the writer’s conference. As I stood in line to order a sandwich, I noticed an even longer line across the street. It was an amazing line, so far as lines go. It had all kinds of people from all walks of life and they were all standing together. Some were chatting, some staring at the nearby police cars. I paid for my food and drink. I’m lucky not to be a curious cat, I might be dead already. My curiosity brought me to the interesting line. I asked the older gay couple in front of me what was going on. They informed me that I was in Vancouver the day cannabis legalization went into effect. Some people might have left. I didn’t. I spoke with the people around me as we made our way to the door of Main Street Marijuana.

Inside the shop, I gawked at the paraphernalia and ogled the quantities and prices. Though I came for a writer’s conference, there was no way I would leave without being a pot tourist. I made a small purchase and left the store holding a little brown bag in addition to my sandwich and soda. I was unsure as to my host’s feelings on the issue of legalization, much less usage, thus I opted to find a scenic location to partake and eat lunch. The great thing about a car, even a rental, is the capacity to pick a direction and travel. I decided on west, picked a road that coalesced with my basic destination, and drove for ten to fifteen minutes before I came to a lake with roadside parking. I thought, obviously, Vancouver Lake had been placed here just for me. I pulled in, ate, then broke down and rolled up. The walk around the lake was pleasant. It could have been the high-grade weed, the 21.5% THC content, or the fact that the day was beautiful; regardless, that was one of the most serene and picturesque walks I’ve ever taken. With my mind right and sobriety finding me, I knew the high must end so that the conference could begin. On the way back to the car, I determined that I would spend the next few evenings at the lake taking in the sunsets.

My first conference was filled with over 300 lesbian readers, writers, and publishers. As with most conferences, there were workshops, sessions, lectures, food, frivolity, and Karaoke. I entered the doors a stranger and left with at least 50 new friends. I also participated in my first book signing and won a Goldie Award for my poetry. When the conference slipped into free-time, I would climb into my rental and drive across the I-5 bridge into Vancouver. Each day after emailing my family, I drove through Vancouver seeing what I could from the driver’s seat. On one of those ambling drives, I found Park Hill Cemetery. I drove deep into the cemetery, seeking a secluded section, and repeated the break and roll ritual. Stoned out of my gourd, I walked around the cemetery cleaning up overgrown gravestones. I’ve cleaned up many gravestones from one side of the United States to the other. The habit was developed at six years old when my mom dated a guy who maintained and landscaped a tiny cemetery outside of Santa Margarita, Ca. On the weekends, he took me with him and taught me two valuable lessons about cemeteries: 1.) not all cemeteries have hired help; and, 2.) there’s nothing scary about tombstones. During the conference, I spent my time driving between the Red Lion in Portland and the house, cemetery, and lake in Vancouver. I feel confident that while I did not participate in the late night shenanigans other conference goers experienced, I did get the better end of the deal. I got to relax.

On my last full day, I decided to do a little sight-seeing on the Oregon side of the border. I drove the I-84 towards The Dalles. The breathtaking mountain views definitely qualified as “purple mountains majesty.” At one point, I saw a tourist “I” sign which I followed to the information center where a ranger kindly showed me a map of the area and pointed out the locations of numerous waterfalls. Waterfalls—exactly the thing to do on my last day. I followed her instructions and saw 12 or so of the 77 Oregon-side waterfalls before ripping the seat out of my pants. I had another pair in my suitcase, I just had to make it back without exposing my crack to the world. Fortunately, the rain started after I decided to return to Vancouver and it didn’t stay with me the whole trip. At the house, I changed pants, packed my suitcase, and mused on Vancouver Lake. This was my last opportunity for a leisurely walk before boarding a couple of cramped planes. Besides, I had a bit of grass left and the desire to toke up. That night at Vancouver Lake was spent watching a street race from my new favorite parking spot.

I still had six hours to burn before catching the redeye back to Germany. The big question arose of what to do with my leftovers. I could not in good conscience just toss high-grade bud into the trash—what a terrible waste. I also could not stick it in my luggage hoping to pass unscathed through TSA checkpoints. I needed to find someone, of age, who would gladly take it off my hands. On the way to the airport, I stopped at a gas station for snacks and drinks. The cashier made me laugh. We talked for a few minutes. He was about to close up. At my rental car, I thought it over and chose to wait for him. While I waited another car pulled up, in it was his boyfriend. After telling them about my predicament, I handed over my little brown bag as well as a copy of my award winning poetry book. I don’t know if gay men are interested in lesbian poetry, but they were very excited at the unexpected gifts. It seems gas station cashiers rarely receive tips.

Empty-handed, I drove to the airport, turned in the rental, and then passed my luggage to the attendant. At the over-priced coffee shop I got a bagel and some coffee which I took to the parking lot where I found a wonderful place to sit and watch the arriving and departing planes. Mt. Hood on the horizon, I wrote new poetry. Suffice it to say, I made it to the end of the Oregon Trail. And, it was awesome.